


THE INTRUDER

by AgnesClementine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, I Don't Even Know, Why Did I Write This?, Winchesters have another brother, but it's literally mentioned once, his name is Desmond, oh whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21550459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgnesClementine/pseuds/AgnesClementine
Summary: The worst thing of them all, Dean thinks bitterly, seething, is that the kid doesn't even look like Dad.
Kudos: 10





	THE INTRUDER

**Author's Note:**

> My brain spawned this out of nowhere, so it's most likely going to be just a one-shot. But we'll see.  
> Set somewhere post season one??? (It was a long time since I watched earlier seasons)
> 
> I don't even know what this is, but uhh, let me know what you think. :)

_The worst thing of them all_ , Dean thinks bitterly, seething, _is that the kid doesn't even look like Dad_.

The call from Bobby came just in time to have Sam slamming on the brakes moments before a goddamned truck ran in front of them and crashed into a ditch. Dean doesn't remember what happened after that, just some yelling, then Dad telling Sam to start up the car again while he bled in the backseat. He does remember the fight between Sam and Dad outside of his hospital room, though. Hushed, hissed words between them as Dad swore up and down that he had no idea about the- then- faceless third kid. And he does remember constructing this image in his head, of some young runt who bears resemblance with Sam, dark and unruly hair, tall and shaping up to grow into Dad’s shoes. He could put up with that. He could live with Dad having another kid and he could tolerate it if the kid at least looked the part.

He doesn’t.

He’s around 20, probably, and Dean would call him gangly, but he’s not particularly tall, so he just looks small and scrawny. Wrists fine-boned and tendons in his hands shifting too clearly as he pops his knuckles.

It’s been two days since they made a fort in this cabin in the middle of fucking nowhere- courtesy of Bobby- and Dean still finds himself staring at the kid for too long sometimes. He’s trying to find some similarities, but he’s not too successful; blue eyes opposed to hazel, cheekbones a bit too wide opposed to Dad’s strong jaw. And yeah, sure, his hair is dark, but it falls down to his temples neatly, no tousles or anything. And he’s British too, so that’s not helping him fit in any better.

Dean knows how it sounds, but it feels like he’s looking at a bad, cheap knock-off.

When he tells as much to Sam- who is constantly hovering, like Dean got a piece of his liver chopped off or something instead of just getting stabbed a bit- Sam pins him with his patent bitch-face and says, “Give him a chance.”

Sam, of course, has been playing nice with the kid since the start of this whole fiasco. All sympathetic, puppy eyes and soft words; Sam knows how to play a gentle giant, and he plays the part well. The kid, though, is completely immune to it- just a reason more not to like him.

And anyway, “giving him a chance” is not so easy when the kid is just drifting through the place soundlessly, light on his feet like a damn cat. Oh, he was there when Bobby drove them here, shook hands and all that jazz, but despite being the one who _sought out them_ , he seems really keen on avoiding them. Or, fine, they haven’t exactly put their efforts in getting friendly either- save for Sam- but whatever. The kid looked for them.

Right now, he’s got a window cracked open and a cigarette in hand, blowing out smoke. Dean’s wondering whether he should tell him to close the window before something yanks him out through it- but then remembers the hell Dad gave him when he caught him smoking when he was seventeen once, and how he didn’t even react beyond a twitch of his right eye when the kid pulled out the pack the first time.

“You’re doing it again,” Sam rouses him from his thoughts, slouched in the sofa next to the couch that Dean pretty much claimed for himself.

He grunts, turning his attention to some ‘90s soap opera rerun.

Dad and Bobby have gone to town for a supplies run; nobody liked the idea with that yellow-eyed bastard still alive and looking for them (and Dean is really fucking itching to find out how the kid knows about that), but they had already stretched their food thin and there’s only so long they can live on ramen and canned soup before somebody snaps. Dean, probably, if he’s being honest.

  * ●●●●



The kid’s not much of a talker. That is, this far, the only thing that Dean can put under “things in common with Dad” list. He sits quietly on the sofa and watches TV- always when Dean is asleep, and leaving as soon as Dean wakes up- or he sits on that window and smokes. He talks to Bobby sometimes, a few words, and to Sam, calm replies to whatever subject Sam starts up. Dean doesn’t try to talk to him, and the words they exchanged after the initial introduction are rare and few.

The first time Dean- or anybody else, if their reactions are to go by- hears the kid say more than five words at once, is when he’s talking on the phone with who-cares-who.

They can’t even make out all the words- Sam thinks it could be French- because he’s outside, pacing by Bobby’s truck. But he’s talking, his mouth is moving, and they are all kind enough to ignore how the other’s have crowded around the window to watch.

When the show is over and the kid comes back inside, he’s back to being a tight-lipped little bastard.

  * ●●●●



In all honesty, if there’s someone _less_ thrilled about this than Dean, then it’s Dad.

He’s watching the kid from the distance, observing and cataloging, but he’s almost as determined to avoid the kid as the kid is determined to avoid everyone else.

So it’s a shock when Dean wakes up to gunshots going off and Bobby saying, “He can handle a gun, I’ll give him that.”

He climbs to his feet before Sam can rush over to stop him, and ignoring his protest, shuffles over to their perches by the window. His wounds itch and still throb but he can walk just fine, thank you, Sam.

Bobby’s right though; the kid can handle a gun. He’s holding a shotgun with practiced ease, standing calmly as Dad talks with a hand hovering above his shoulder. He’s got the barrel pointed at the ground, focused on what Dad’s saying and Dean wonders if he’s a hunter. Or if his mom was a hunter. Do they have monsters and hunters in the UK?

They watch Dad watching kid shoot cans off the fence for a while longer- he’s got a good aim, and the shotgun’s got a strong jerk but he doesn’t stop to roll his probably bruised shoulder even once- and Dean continues his thought about him being a hunter with wondering if Dad’s planning to take him along for hunts once they get the demon.

He’s not sure if he likes that idea.

  * ●●●●



The cabin has three rooms, a bedroom, and a joined kitchen and living room. The floorboards don’t creak, and although he wasn’t trying to be quiet, Dean still doesn’t expect the kid to be looking at him while he’s making his way towards the bathroom.

The light from the TV bounces off the side of his face, where he’s curled up on the sofa, and he doesn’t look startled. In fact, he doesn’t look much of anything, and Dean would be concerned or suspicious if he didn’t know that Bobby already made all the tests.

The painkillers have worn off for the night, and Dean is not exactly thrilled by that, but he ignores it- and the kid- in favor of moving along to the bathroom. When he gets out, the kid is still there, but at least he’s not staring at Dean anymore.

Sam is completely dead to the world when he gets back to their room, stepping over a sleeping bag on the floor. He climbs into the bed and almost dozes off when the door creaks open. He keeps his eyes closed, listens as something is being set on the nightstand next to his head, then ruffling of the sleeping bag on the floor. After a second, he opens his eyes to find a glass of water and two pills he knows are painkillers well in his reach. He swallows dryly, then downs both pills with water.

On the floor, the kid is curled up under the covers Sam put over the sleeping bag. He's breathing slow and easy, but he’s not asleep yet. Dean thinks about touching his shoulder, ultimately decides against it, and ends up just saying “Thanks, Des,” in the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote that Desmond is British but he doesn't even speak here, I'm so sorry, Des.


End file.
